Part 42 (2/2)

The handsome head with its grizzled hair was resting on Radowitz's coat.

Falloden could not bear it. He took off his own, and gently subst.i.tuted it for the other. And as he laid the head down, he kissed the hair and the brow. He was alone with his father--more alone than he ever would be again. There was not a human step or voice upon the moor. Night was coming rapidly on. The stream rushed beside him. There were a few cries of birds--mostly owls from the woods below. The dead man's face beside him was very solemn and quiet. And overhead, the angry sunset clouds were fading into a dim and star-strewn heaven, above a world sinking to its rest.

The moon was up before Radowitz came back to the little rectory on the other side of the moor. Sorell, from whose mind he was seldom absent, had begun to worry about him, was in fact on the point of setting out in search of him. But about nine o'clock he heard the front gate open and jumping down from the low open window of the rectory drawing-room he went to meet the truant.

Radowitz staggered towards him, and clung to his arm.

”My dear fellow,” cried Sorell, aghast at the bay's appearance and manner--”what have you been doing to yourself?”

”I went up the moor for a walk after tea--it was so gorgeous, the clouds and the view. I got drawn on a bit--on the castle side. I wasn't really thinking where I was going. Then I saw the park below me, and the house.

And immediately afterwards, I heard a groaning sound, and there was a man lying on the ground. It was Sir Arthur Falloden--and he died--while I was there.” The boy's golden head dropped suddenly against Sorell. ”I say, can't I have some food, and go to bed?”

Sorell took him in and looked after him like a mother, helped by the kind apple-faced rector, who had heard the castle news from other sources also, and was greatly moved.

When Otto's exhaustion had been fed and he was lying in his bed with drawn brows, and no intention or prospect of going to sleep, Sorell let him tell his tale.

”When the bearers came, I went down with them to the castle, and I saw Lady Laura”--said the boy, turning his head restlessly from side to side. ”I say, it's awful--how women cry! Then they told me about the inquest--I shall have to go to-morrow--and on the way home I went to see Lady Connie. I thought she ought to know.”

Sorell started.

”And you found her?”

”Oh, yes. She was sitting in the garden.”

There was a short silence. Then Otto flung up his left hand, caught a gnat that was buzzing round his head, and laughed--a dreary little sound.

”It's quite true--she's in love with him.”

”With Douglas Falloden?”

Otto nodded.

”She was awfully cut up when I told her--just for him. She didn't cry of course. Our generation doesn't seem to cry--like Lady Laura. But you could see what she wanted.”

”To go to him?”

”That's it. And of course she can't. My word, it is hard on women!

They're hampered such a lot--by all their traditions. Why don't they kick 'em over?”

”I hope she will do nothing of the kind,” said Sorell with energy. ”The traditions may just save her.”

Otto thought over it.

”You mean--save her from doing something for pity that she wouldn't do if she had time to think?”

Sorell a.s.sented.

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